Heatby Mary LambertWings scrape wings as misshapen flight blurs the sun. And this desiccated field lays slain, eaten, skinned in the shadow of the beast. What comes of this? What mortal entity can withstand this purge? Chalk white stubble turns to dust and floats in the still air. I walk amongst ruins of what was. My God, My God, why hath thou forsaken me? I hang on thy structure, my wounds burning in the heat of this arid hell. Come to me, lift me from this tortured post toward your diamond Eye of integer. My God. |
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